


You Break So Pretty

by harlequintessential



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Abuse, Death Threats, F/M, Gunplay, Hearing Voices, Near Death Experiences, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Seriously Dark Fic, Sexual Violence, Violence, goddamn, just like, mostly consensual, the joker is crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 10:04:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8158270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequintessential/pseuds/harlequintessential
Summary: She's testing his patience. He'll test how long it takes her to break. (Severely dark fic. Rated M for a multitude of reasons.)





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Author's Note: This is going to get sexual in the next chapter. This is my first-ever fic written from Mistah J's viewpoint, so… Let's see how OOC it got, I guess? I don't know, I needed to make it two chapters because I needed to take a break from writing this. Writing from Mistah J's point of view makes me anxious, cos I have to go into a super dark headspace for him, and it makes me intensely uncomfortable? I just… ugh. Spooky scary skeletons. Okay! Reviews make me a happy gumdrop. This is dark, btw, so trigger warnings abound.)

There was something almost soothing about the smell of gunpowder, something that reminded the senses of a barbecue, or a crackling fireplace. Of course, the soothing quality could be rapidly diminished depending on what side of the gun you're standing on. Or just on your point of view. It took a truly enlightened man to laugh when he was looking down the barrel of a gun, let alone close his eyes and let the cards fall. And nobody was better at playing 52-pickup than yours truly, the one, the only, Joker!

He really needed to stop narrating his own thoughts. It was tacky, and anyway, wasn't that what he kept Harley around for? One of the various few tasks that she wasn't entirely terrible at? Speaking of, where _was_ the little minx? "Harley?" The Joker's voice raised, piercing the night, reverberating off the tall buildings that surrounded him. "Five… Four… _Three_ …"

Like magic, she appeared almost instantaneously, bouncing around nervously. It was always so easy to summon her - just like a child, all one had to do was count down from five, and she'd be begging for forgiveness before you hit one. Pathetic little thing that she was, he tolerated her more annoying moments for the memory of the sound barrier breaking in her rush to appeal to him.

"Yessir, Mistah J, what do I need t'do?" It was the moments like these, when he'd surprised her, that the Brooklyn accent came out in full force. The Joker _adored_ those moments, when he'd broken down the last of an incapacitated Harley's walls - the only one she ever managed to build back up again - and she slipped into that full-on, unabashed, thick New Yawk drawl. It wasn't often that he coaxed it out of her without alcohol, exhaustion, or some form of lust; he did not take these moments of weakness for granted.

The Joker looked at his harlequin impassively, forcing his mouth to stay flat. It was always a little workout to keep a smile off his face, and he tended not to do it for anyone but Harley. She was squirming under his gaze, obviously uncomfortable with the prolonged silence. His poor little girl; with her lowered self esteem and heightened anxiety, his quiet was another form of torture (well utilized by, once again, yours truly). Her cheeks were flushed red enough that he could see the glow through the greasepaint, and it brought the smile involuntarily back to his lips.

"Moonlight isn't bad lighting for you," he commented, eyes darting past her, like there was something far more interesting just over her shoulder. "It makes your skin glow."

That happy little squeak always made the corners of his lips tug ever upwards. Something about the fragile innocence of such a sound… _beautiful_ , especially from his twisted little monster. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a single finger. "Ah ah ah! Did Daddy give you permission to talk?"

A quick shake of the head sent her liliripes bouncing, and he had to fight the urge to grab them, to forcibly bend her to his will, whatever that might be. No. There'd be time for that later. "Good girl. See, good girls only speak when spoken to, hm? They don't waste my time with idle chit chat." And she really was almost perfect when she didn't speak. Without her screechy little voice, her _constant_ chattering, the idiotic pet names; without all that, she was almost tolerable. One of these days, he'd have to get around to cutting her tongue out, or sewing her mouth shut… Though it would be a shame to lose her skill for sucking cock, filthy little whore that she was (filthy little whore who unapologetically slept her way through med school). And he _did_ sometimes enjoy her praise… Hm. Well, taking away her voice _permanently_ could wait. These brief sessions of blissful quiet would do for now.

(Deep down, he knows that this is all conjecture. Despite his idle thoughts, he will never take her voice away, and that disturbs him. He tries not to think about it.)

"Now. You're going to get in the car, and drive me home, and you'd better go fast." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "You never know, I may no longer be in the mood to fuck you senseless if the drive takes too long." Harley's eyes widened behind the mask, and she let out another one of those delightful squeaks.

(Something about that noise is so… _endearing_. When it comes from her, he can almost _see her_ , back when she was untouched, so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He can see her behind her desk at Arkham, that dainty blush on her cheeks as he flirted unashamedly from his chained position on the couch. He can see a ten year old, so bright and beaming and _beautiful_ , hanging from the rings while she trained. He can see a little girl, a six year old Harleen-"Call me Harley! Everyone does!"-with gap teeth and innocent eyes. He can see her, and he wants to hate her for it. He thinks he does. He tries to, at least.)

"Yes, Boss!" Immediately, Harley clapped a hand over her mouth, a look of abject horror on her face. The quickness of her guilt pleased him, almost made him want to give her a reprieve. Almost.

One pale hand shot out and cracked across her face, and she was crying before she even knew what hit her. And _God_ , the way she looked at him after a smack, that hurt and betrayal that simmered in her eyes… Her tears streaked her makeup; he loved it when he destroyed the image that she oh-so-carefully put together for him everyday. Showing her, once again, that her efforts to impress him were all for naught. He knew her far too well. He knew what she _really_ was - a pathetic, submissive, worthless little whore - and she could do nothing to change that image. You could almost feel sorry for her.

(And he does, sometimes, at night. He lies in bed and stares up at the ceiling, and he feels her warm softness beside him, and he listens to her breathe, and a feeling that he dimly remembers as guilt threatens to throttle him. And _no_ , he doesn't feel guilty, _actually_. Not unless he thinks about it. But while he usually thinks of his relationship with Harley as having taken a bright candle and starting a forest fire, sometimes, when he's alone with his thoughts, he wonders if he really just snuffed it out. If his Harley is a real person, or more of a… twisted reflection of himself. Again, he tries not to think about it.)

(There's too damn much he has to try not to think about these days.)

"Now, now, Harley-girl. I don't want to hurt you again. Don't give me a reason to." The Joker leaned in, then, and he flashed her a shark's smile - accompanied with those same cold, dead eyes. Wide, menacing, blindingly white teeth, hands folded nicely behind his back, he knew what he looked like, and drank in her fear.

(Is it better to be feared than loved? Well, for the rest of Gotham, the answer was a resounding yes, and usually Harley's fear came with love to spare. But… there were times, right after he'd _really_ hurt her, where he'd reach for her, and she'd… _flinch_.

That flinch always hurt more than he thought it would.

There was no flinch this time.)

Harley stared up at him, and there was a hint of reproach there. Like she was _angry_ with him. Like she _got_ to be angry with him. Who the hell did she think she was? "Car, Harley." he growled. "Now." She wanted to be upset? She wanted to bitch about how he'd hurt her _ickle-wickle feewings_? She wanted to play victim? Hah. Then he could play villain.

She got up, slowly, and the Joker dimly marvelled at the fact that he'd slapped her hard enough to knock her over. There was a strange look on Harley's face, like she wanted to say something but thought better of it at the last second. She walked to the car, and moved to get into the driver's seat. "Backseat." He snapped his fingers and pointed, raising an eyebrow pointedly.

Harley shrugged, hand slipping off the door handle and moving back one, sliding into the backseat. He followed her, uncaring that they were still at a crime scene, uncaring that dead bodies littered the ground outside the car. If the Batman was going to come, he would have already. Must have been having an off night.

Harley looked at him, and that odd look was gone. Back to the usual simpering expression, the one that made him want to take her by the hair and just _slam_ it into a wall until she _stopped fucking looking at him like that_. (He finds himself angry at her for letting him treat her like he does, these days. _You were so bright, Harleen, you had your silly little book and your silly little life, and you would've died without ever getting the joke._ And maybe… Maybe that would have been better for her. He's turned the brightest mind at Arkham into a twisted little fuckpuppet, and she _let him do it_. It makes him _seethe_.)

"Do you know why we're back here, Pooh?" The Joker forced his voice to be calm and measured. Lull her into as much of a sense of security as he could, before tearing it away again. The little hurt looks he got after that emotional betrayal, now _those_ were ambrosia.

"I have two ideas." How novel - more than a singular thought in that dizzy skirt's head. (Except she's no dumb blonde, is she? That's what drew you to her in the first place.)

"Go on."  
"Either you decided you wanted to fuck me here-" And she looked up with _such_ a hopeful expression. God, he wanted to cleave her face in fucking _half_ , send her as a little present to Harvey. Maybe he'd enjoy her stupid infatuated schtick. (Except he won't and he knows it. The idea of anybody else touching her like he has physically revolts him.) "-or I'm in trouble." Harley's face drooped, her lower lip jutting out in a definite pout at even the _prospect_ of being punished. Cute. Real cute.

He pretended to think about it, tapping a finger to his chin with a quizzical expression. "Mm, well… I think it's a little bit of both, Harl."

Harley looked down at her hands, which were resting oh-so-demurely (who did she think she was kidding?) in her lap. "Yessir, Mistah J," she said softly, and any resistance that may have lit her belly earlier was gone. His lips peeled back in a proud grin, and he tousled her hair almost (definitely) fondly. She peeked at him with a tiny smile, which grew at the sight of his own. "What do you need from me?"

He thought for a moment. Though the Joker was usually a proponent of making the punishment fit the crime, he couldn't think of a way to fit that sassy look that didn't involve Smilex or gouging out eyes. Neither of which sounded particularly appealing. A furtive sweep of his surroundings, searching for inspiration… Ah. Ooh, now _that_ could be fun. Take one aroused Harley, add life threat. Result? A fucked-out, guilty little pliant toy to bring home. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Serve to taste. Yes, he liked this plan a lot.

"I need you in my lap." He kept his voice light, silky, like this was all still just a bit of fun. He didn't have to tell her twice - the benefit of keeping her nigh constantly starved for attention. She was in his lap before she could blink, intertwining around him, making sickening little cooing noises. He shuddered; didn't bother to suppress it. Let her feel it. Let her know what her clinginess did to him. (Just don't let her know that sometimes you need it. Keeps you grounded. Keeps you real. This is real.)

"Mmf." She buried her face in his shoulder, and he could feel her start to wriggle against his thigh. Oh, that wouldn't do at all.

Grabbing the back of her neck firmly, he shoved her face into the car seat, pushing away from her so her legs toppled onto the floor. There was the sick thud of limb against mat, and she let out a little whimper. "Dirty. Little. Slut." The Joker spat, punctuating every word with a minute tightening of his grip. And then Harley was up, scrabbling to get away, trying desperately to get the door open. As a reward for her efforts, he managed to slam her skull into the side of the car door, a gentle reminder not to try to get away. Next time, he wouldn't be so forgiving. Not like he didn't already want to smack her again and again and again until she stained his hands and the screaming stopped and she _got out of his head_ (but you can't do it, can you, Jack?)

"That's not. My fucking. _Name_." he growled, and there was a gun in his pocket (or was he pleased to see her?) and then there was a gun in his hand.


	2. 2

The Joker shook his head viciously, clearing his thoughts. _Time to shut up now, Voices, Daddy's busy._ "You do _not_ run from me, Harley girl." On the negative, he cracked a hand across her face, fingers coming away tacky with greasepaint. "You do _not_ speak out of turn. And you most _certainly_ do not give me those little looks. You don't get angry with me, Princess, not anymore. Got it?"

A fearful nod, lower lip quivering. She was truly scared, in this moment. She feared not just for her safety, but for her life; he could see the last-ditch panic in her eyes, and it fuelled the desire in his stomach. He wanted her. Wanted to fuck and scratch and bite and moan (and hold and kiss and sleep) shut _up_

"Good. Now, to make sure it sinks in, we're going to have a little lesson. Won't that be fun? You might even be able to whore around, get your grade up. I know you're good at that." He leered down at her, and she made a soft little noise of hurt. "Aw, too far, Harleen?"

An audible sob. Strange, really - the harm that words could do. He could slap her across the face and she would offer up the other cheek fearlessly, if she thought it would make him happy. But hit upon that right combination of epithets, and she could shatter before his eyes. It sometimes took days for her to be fully herself again. That was always such a pain in the ass, trying to coax a smile back into her. (But he does always do it. He doesn't like seeing her sad for too long. Her smile is radiant.) That old children's adage was bullshit after all. Quelle surprise.

And bringing up her name, savouring every syllable, getting up close to her face and tonguing: "Harleen. Frances. Quinzel." always got the strongest flinch out of her, more intense than if he'd just hauled off and punched her. Such a curious little tic, how much she hated being reminded of her old life. (Because it isn't who she is, or because she misses it?) Of course she didn't miss it. She didn't have the _capacity_ to miss it. His hold on her was _that_ strong, at least. She could barely last a day without him; the idea of her fantasizing about her life before him was preposterous. (Then why does he worry about it?) He didn't. He _didn't_.

"Now, Harley." The Joker practically purred, like he was one of Selina's little mongrels. He really did need to send pest control 'round her place, one of these days. Focus. "You're going to let me do what I want. And if you're very good, you…" Hm. She needed that element of protectiveness, tinged with sexual energy. "You can touch Daddy, hm? Anywhere you'd like." Now _that_ was incentive.

Harley gnawed at her lower lip for a moment - but it was really only a moment. It wasn't often that she was offered the prospect of unlimited touching, after all. A sharp nod, her chin practically hitting the hollow of her throat.

The Joker's smile widened, corners lifting til they threatened to leave his face entirely. Without another word, the gun that had idly rested in his hand was jammed up against Harley's inner thigh. Her squeak at the cold metal turned to a shriek once she realised the source, and he clapped a hand over her mouth with a look of icy anger. The noise stopped; he removed his hand, satisfied. Aw, and she'd even taken care not to get spit on the leather. What a good girl.

"Please don't kill me." Harley whispered, looking up at him with her sad, shiny bunny eyes. There were tears brimming at her lashes, and her face was screwed up tightly, but he knew in that moment that she wouldn't stop him. If he went to pull the trigger, right then, she wouldn't grab his wrist. She wouldn't try to get away. She would, as the saying goes, go gently into that dark night. No pun intended, believe it or not. (Does her acceptance make this more or less fun?)

"Oh, quit begging, idiot." he murmured, removing the gun from its resting place in the meat of her right thigh. "The safety's not even off." With a deft flick of the thumb, he rectified the issue, placing the gun up against Harley's stomach, just below where breast became ribcage insulation. " _Now_ you can start pleading."

To her credit, Harley didn't say a word. At the sound of the safety catching, she'd gasped, and now her shoulders shook with silent tears, but she kept her mouth resolutely shut. Stubborn little minx. (He loves it when she refuses to give into him. Or at least, a tiny part of him does. It makes him wonder if maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit of Harleen is still in there. Back in the early days of their sessions, she'd been so intolerant of his games. She'd been prepared. Didn't let him get away with anything more than flirting. He misses that evidence of a spine, every once in awhile.)

The Joker looked down at the figure in his lap, humming thoughtfully to himself as he caressed the trigger of the gun with the ball of his thumb. Just obviously enough for Harley to see it. "Ah!" He snapped his fingers, as though an idea had just occurred to him. With his free hand, he plucked a knife from the cup holder. More of a makeshift toolbox now, really, but he still used it to hold his coffee every once in awhile. Tightening alabaster fingers around the hilt lit up Harley's eyes. The knife, she was used to. The knife was familiar. Ironically, it made her feel safer just looking at the gleam of it - he could tell. "Now now, Harley-girl, don't go getting too excited. This is still a punishment." And he wouldn't be using it in the way that she wanted, either. With a quick flick of his wrist, a yawning gash appeared up the middle of her suit. The spandex peeled lightly to the sides, and he could hear her stifled noise of indignation. He swatted her hip, a reminder of her place, before tugging her open.

If he was being honest with himself, he had to admit - Harley had fairly fantastic breasts. So pale, just big enough for a handful, with those puffy pink nipples in the center. And then, the piece de resistance, the thin pinkish-white 'J' that lay in the hollow between her tits. He'd done that with this very knife, years ago. And still, every time he saw it, it made him smile. She was _his_. Marked. Property of Joker. Do not touch. His creation, his pet, his toy, his Harley. His.

"Whose tits are these, Harley?" he asked, almost conversationally, idly plucking at her nipples.

"Y-yours, Daddy?" So hesitant! Like she might be getting it wrong. Precious.

"What a clever widdle monster!" he simpered, before giving her left nipple a savage twist. She gave a little cry, soft in the back of her throat, but didn't flinch. Good _girl_. As a reward, he bent his head down, taking the abused nipple into his mouth and soothing it with his tongue. Harley's whining turned to moans quickly, and he smirked around her before pulling back and shoving the barrel of the gun onto her breast, nipple slipping inside.

Harley whimpered, but said nothing. She was learning. Aw, and was her other nipple hardening? What a dirty little girl.

"Naughty, naughty," the Joker sing-songed, pulling his hand back. "I think you might be getting off on this, Harley-girl, and that just won't do. How will you learn your lesson?" He shook his head sadly, disappointment etched on his face. "Guess I'll have to kick things up a notch!" The gun jammed up against Harley's trachea, and he could _feel_ her swallowing.

"Please don't kill me." she repeated, quieter than before.

" _Kill_ you?" The Joker widened his eyes and dropped his jaw, hamming up the shock factor. "Why would I do that when the gun is just getting started?" A beat before the maniacal laughter began. "Get it, Harley? The _guuuuuuuuun_ is just getting started?"

"Heh… Good one, Boss." Her voice was weak. So scared. So soft. Poor thing. She really didn't know what to expect from him, and _that_ was different for her too. She'd grown so accustomed to predicting his wants and actions, and she was panicking, not just for herself but for him. (Such a sweet kid. He really doesn't deserve her. She doesn't deserve him.)

As his laughter peaked, his shoulders shook. His finger slipped.

His heart stopped.

 _Clik_.

A misfire.

The laughter died in his throat, replaced with a heady, dizzying rush of relief. He let the gun slip from his hand, where it bounced to the carpeted floor with a dull _thud_. Harley's eyes cracked open, and she eyed him with concern. "Everythin' alright, Puddin'?"

Did she _not know_? She really hadn't noticed how close she'd come to death? The Joker goggled at her, disbelieving, his breath coming quickly. She cocked her head, puzzled. "Did I do somethin' wrong?"

"No," he said, and it came out breathy with relief. "I mean, yes. I'm fine."

"Okay. You want me t' get that for ya?"

" _No_ ," he said, probably with more force than was necessary. "No. Just… come here." Harley sat up, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He held her by the waist, growing progressively tighter. He tugged off her cap, burying his face in her hair and breathing her in. He'd almost...

Her hair always smelled like guava and honey, that stupid shampoo she loved. Even when they were broke, she somehow managed to keep it in stock. Just one of those things that happened that he didn't question. Like how when he tossed his coat, it never hit the ground. Or that breakfast was always ready when he came downstairs in the morning. It was simply the way of the world.

But for a fleeting moment, he'd seen a world where those things didn't happen. There were crumpled jackets on the floor, and there was no food, and he never smelled honey and guava again. A world where he had to sleep alone at night.

And it had scared him.

So he held her. Tightly. Like she might slip away at any moment. He'd almost lost her. If he was going to kill her, it damn well wouldn't be by accident. She deserved more than that.

"Can we go home now?" Harley murmured.

"Yeah. Yeah, Pooh, we can go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Author's Note: Ta-da! My first two parter is finished. I hope that it turned out okay, and was mostly in character. It definitely got pretty dark there for a hot second. Please read and review! Ta, darlings, and I'll see you next time.]


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